


as beautiful as you

by janie_tangerine



Series: the jaimebrienne spite countdown to season eight [30]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (IS BACK!!), Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, BAMF Catelyn, Brienne is the Best, Cersei Fans Please Abstain, Crack Treated Seriously, Curses, Dragons, Dreams, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fairy Tale Curses, Fairy Tale Style, Idiots in Love, Knights - Freeform, Lord Pigeon Ned Stark, Magic, Marxist!Drogon, Metafiction, Oaths & Vows, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Sleeping Beauty Elements, Sort Of, Spitefic, The Author Regrets Nothing, True Love, Tumblr Prompt, this fic is on crack and I don't regret it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 22:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19304815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: in which Brienne is a princess cursed to turn anyone around her as ugly as she is and Jaime is on a quest to rescue her hoping to restore his reputation. Featuring, not in order: no attempt to make sense of the timeline, Pigeon!Ned Stark, a Marxist dragon, badly understood curses, Catelyn Tully's A+ fairy-godmothering and True Love Saving The Day without a care for beauty standards.





	as beautiful as you

**Author's Note:**

> AAAND WELCOME TO THE SECOND TO LAST SPITEFIC I can't believe I'm almost done two months later than predicted but ANYWAY, I shall immediately discover what's today's Crap Argument, which is also one of my favorite/least-favorite anti-JB arguments in existence. Have these two gems from the year of the lord 2015:
> 
> I mean, I think they speak for themselves so I'm going to go ahead and inform you that this happened because an anon on tumblr was wondering how would a Shrek AU with those two work (the conclusion was it wouldn't if taken at face value) but someone else came up with _When Brienne was born some fairy her parents had pissed off came and told them "hey not only is your daughter going to grow up ugly, I've cursed her so anyone who loves her/she loves will turn just as ugly as her fuck you" and so because of reasons the tower happens? Possibly because people are dicks to her to avoid the curse. And one day Jaime, having had an argument with Cersei or some shit says “well fuck you I’m gonna go rescue the ugly princess” or maybe she tells him something like “well if you’re such an honorable knight go rescue the ugly princess” and so he does and shenanigans happen and he rescues her and while they travel he kinda falls for her and how badass and honorable she is as in canon but is like “well I can’t be in love with her cause I’m still hot” or maybe “well she can’t love me back cause I’m still hot” and she probably thinks similar things but then it turns out that since he was already ugly inside and he saw how beautiful she was inside a lot more than he did any ugliness the curse got broken/was satisfied by the fact that he, completely on his own, turned just as ugly inside as her ie not at all._ And I went like OH IT'S PERFECT FOR *THAT* PROMPT AND MY PREVIOUS IDEA REQUIRED TOO MUCH PLOT SO IT'S GOING TO BE SHORT and.... yeah. It's obviously not short. Have fun.
> 
> That said: this is NOT a Shrek AU of any sort except the inspiration obviously, *but* as the two things I loved of those movies most were a) that they were unapologetic crack, b) that they were META AS HELL, I've taken a few liberties and recycled my own [pigeon!Ned Stark](https://archiveofourown.org/series/683051) crack into this because I'm hilarious like that and I might have taken the comrade Drogon jokes from the S8 finale a bit too seriously. There's also hidden shade about the S8 finale tbqh but that went unsaid. Also, I know that most likely Aegon Targaryen was a better person than I made him out to be but I needed an excuse for Brienne's life to suck while she had a princess title. Sorry Aegon, I'll make it up to you one day, but nothing personal.
> 
> Also, the title is from Jon Bon Jovi as it brought the obligatory cheesiness and I own nothing except the crack. Have fun.

Once upon a time, a blue-eyed princess was born on the fair island of Tarth.

That was not long before the Seven Kingdoms were one, and that was why she actually _did_ qualify as a princess — had she been born mere months later, after Aegon conquered the whole of Westeros, she would not have been.

However, being born a princess was not any luck for Brienne, as she was named by her parents. Not only she was born during the Conquest, which meant there was no celebration for her, not when her beautiful, small and proud island was trying to resist being taken, but alas, dragons were no match for her father’s army, not for an entire coalition trying to resist Aegon the Conqueror.

What neither her parents nor the rest of Westeros knew, on top of that, was that the Targaryens’s magic was not limited to commanding dragons; they could also curse people to their will, and while Aegon was loathe to do such a thing, as he didn’t want to cause even more upheaval after winning his war, his advisors told him that it would do good to set a few examples so that people would think twice before considering going to war against him once again.

Back then, though, the Targaryens were not the only supernatural beings in Westeros.

The Tullys of Riverrun also were known throughout the land for their magic — no one exactly knew when they were born, as they seemed to have _always_ been around, but everyone in the Riverlands knew to not anger them, for their magic was extremely powerful. Admittedly, the Riverlanders feared not most of them, especially Edmure, who was known to bless commoners’s children and salvage crops even when not asked for, nor wishing for sacrifices or favors in return, but they would rather not anger Hoster, the oldest of them, and certainly not Lysa, his youngest daughter, who was known for being fickle with her attentions and sometimes cruel, and the entire contrary of her brother.

Knowing all of this, and after a long consult with his advisors after which four minor lords who had refused to surrender until it was inevitable were chosen as an example to be made of, Aegon summoned Lysa and asked for her help in setting that aforementioned example, proposing an alliance in between them in exchange for leaving the Riverlands mostly alone.

Mostly.

Lysa accepted, against the wishes of her sister, her brother and her uncle, and cursed the first three as she saw appropriate before moving in front of Lord Selwyn, his wife and the newborn Brienne.

Now, only the Riverlanders knew that Lady Lysa, immortal and magic as she was, had been in turn cursed by her father to never conceive after she angered him in the past, and therefore was not much inclined to rejoice in front of newborns belonging to others.

She looked down at the princess — at six months old, she was larger and heavier than most children her age, had a pair of astonishing blue eyes and pale blonde hair, fair skin covered in light, barely-visible freckles. A healthy, strong child, that was for sure.

Lysa Tully smiled.

“You should have thought better before crossing the King,” she said, “and for that, _she_ will pay.”

Lord Selwyn tried to beg for her to change her mind, but Lysa shook her head. “I curse you,” she whispered, looking at Brienne, “to grow up _ugly_ , and whoever loves you or that _you_ love, will turn out to be just as ugly as you.” Then she snapped her fingers… and then smiled. “Oh, and if I were you, I would not let her near a blade. Just a friendly advice.” She snapped her fingers again before disappearing into thin air, and a moment later the princess’s mother let out a scream and fell dead on the ground — later, people supposed that as she _did_ love her daughter unconditionally, she couldn’t stand such pain.

Her father looked down at his daughter, his blue eyes so similar to hers filling with tears, feeling that same pain spread across his chest as he held her to him, bowed in front of the King and left the room, wondering what he could do now —

“Lord Selwyn,” a woman’s voice said, and he turned to his side to find himself in front of… someone who _did_ look like Lady Lysa, but was most certainly not her.

“And who are you, if I may ask?” He spat, not feeling particularly charitable.

The woman looked at him with kind, blue eyes, her loose auburn hair falling on her shoulders — Lady Lysa’s had been styled.

“I am Lady Lysa’s sister,” she sighed.

“Lady… Catelyn?”

“Precisely,” she answered. Lord Selwyn was a bit less wary, but not entirely convinced of the reasons why she would stop him — Lady Catelyn did not have her sister’s fame, but not her brother’s either, and as far as rumors from the Riverlands said, would only show if summoned and would take no payment, but would also rather not use her magic to influence humans’s lives. “And I wish to help you.”

“… Help me?”

“See,” she said, “none of us agreed to what my sister has just done. It’s not the way we had decided to use our magic a long time ago. And I do not abide by harming innocent children who have done nothing wrong.”

“Could you undo her curse…?” Lord Selwyn asked, suddenly hopeful.

She shook her head.

“Sadly, we cannot _undo_ our magic,” she said. “However, no one forbids me to cast another spell that might… mitigate my sister’s. Will you let me?”

Lord Selwyn was loathe to trusting even more magic, but Lady Catelyn looked sincere and he did _not_ want his daughter to pay for his mistakes for her entire life.

“I will,” he conceded.

Lady Catelyn nodded, thinking about it for what felt like a long, long moment.

“My sister,” she sighed, “ _still_ has a lot to learn, as much as she likes to think the contrary.” She stares down at Brienne, then reaches out to touch her cheek. “I cannot lift that curse from you,” she says, “but I can make it so that it can be broken. People that you love or who love you _will_ turn out _exactly_ as ugly as you _are_ ,” she goes on, stressing that word, “but it will be broken when someone worthy will see… _exactly how much_ ,” she smiles, and Lord Selwyn thinks he might have understood.

“Oh. You mean —”

“My sister never said _where_ she would turn ugly,” Lady Catelyn smiles before looking back down at Brienne. “As far as being near blades go…” She shakes her head. “Whichever evil my sister meant, it will be undone when you’re given the right one. _As long as it might take_ ,” she says, moving her hand away from Brienne’s cheek. “There,” she says, “it was everything I could do. But if you wish me to, I will keep an eye on her.”

“Would — would you? But _why_ would you need to?”

Lady Catelyn gave him a sad smile. “I think you will learn soon,” she said, sounding _sorry._ “You deserved better, my lord, and she did as well, but I would pray for you to call for me, when you know it’s the right time.”

“… When I know it’s the right time?”

“You will, my lord. You will.”

Lady Catelyn disappeared then, and Lord Selwyn soon found out what she meant.

As in, that the King had changed his mind and decided to make his punishment even crueler, he ordered for his heir to be kept as a hostage in King’s Landing.

— —

By the time she was seven, young Lady Brienne Tarth was entirely well-aware that she was ugly.

She used to think nothing of her looks, until the septa the King had chosen for her and the other hostages held in the Red Keep informed her of the truth behind them, and she found out _why_ people laughed at her, or why they would all go out of their way to say hurtful things to her all the time.

Septa Roelle informed her that her height was unnatural, that her hair looked like straw, that her features were mannish and not ladylike, that her hands were too large and her mouth too full, with a straight face and an even tone, as if she couldn’t care less of how Brienne would take that information. That night, as Brienne glanced at her reflection in her little room, her large shoulders barely fitting in an ill-sewn gown that barely closed around her waist, she cried for the first time in years — she was known for being a quiet child, not very talkative, but then again everyone laughed or mocked her when they talked to her, and so she did not choose to talk to _them_ in return.

She glanced at the letters from her father that she kept lovingly on her desk — she had never met him, she could not, but he had written to her all these years, and so she knew that at least _someone_ in the whole of the Seven Realms did love her, at least some. Alas, it was a small consolation — the royal hostages did not interact much with the rest of the court, and none of the other children wanted to talk to _her_.

Some of them even told her that they wouldn’t risk turning as ugly as she was, and what did that even mean? Brienne did not know. Brienne wished she did. But the one time she asked Septa Roelle she only gained a backhand to her face and was told to never do it again lest she would anger people that were better left alone, and so she never did again.

Brienne’s life was pretty much only _that_ — her peers taking their own suffering out on her, her looks being mocked, feeling like she was no good for anything and keeping herself from asking questions because she knew they would go unanswered.

However, that changed at once the day she saw two Kingsguard knights train in the yard.

Now, Brienne was not allowed to go near them, of course; but she was moved to another, smaller room that faced their training yard, and the moment she saw them crossing swords, she felt as a veil had lifted from her eyes.

Both of them were tall and with wide shoulders — like her; both of them were strong, like her, she _knew_ that; and both of them looked so proud and tall and graceful as their blades kissed over and over again. Brienne, for a moment, imagined dressing in mail and armor, like _them_ , or like the illustrations on the books they were given to read by Roelle. She wouldn’t look ridiculous and unseemly and awkward, in mail and armor. It would fit her, because it fit _them_ , and she could become strong enough to lift a sword, and instead of being holed up here she might go out and protect others and then people wouldn’t care if she was ugly at that point, because would it have mattered? And if all else failed, well, those knights had helms. Surely they would hide her face, and then who would have known?

Brienne immediately ran to search for Roelle, being her only option to propose such an arrangement.

Unfortunately, she only ever gained a backhand to her face, a reprimand about how young women should _not_ want such things, about how knighthood is only for me, and about her being an ugly, wicked, cursed child who really needed to stop wishing for things beyond her reach.

That night, Brienne wept as she closed her little room’s door, but she stopped when she heard a voice calling for her.

“Lady Brienne?” The voice asked, and she immediately looked up to see a pretty young lady standing near the door. No, she wasn’t just _pretty_ , she was downright beautiful, with pale skin, long auburn hair, large blue eyes and a blue and red gown with a trout embroidered in silver on the breast.

“Do I know you?” She asked, taking a step back.

“No,” she agreed, “but I know _you_ , and I think I can help you.”

“You… can help me?” Brienne asked — she knew she shouldn’t have trusted a complete stranger, but nonetheless… this lady still was the only person who ever looked at her with kindness for as long as she remembered.

“Indeed,” she nodded. “I saw that you wish to be a knight?”

“Septa Roelle says —”

“Never mind _Septa Roelle_ ,” the lady said. “Very well.” She turned to the door, touched the handle and pulled it down. The door opened, to Brienne’s wonder — it was always locked from the outside.

“How —” She asked.

The lady produced a key from _somewhere,_ motioning for her to come closer. “Here,” she said. “No one will know that you have this, if you’re careful. Will you be?”

Brienne nodded eagerly and took the key as the lady gave it to her. “Good. With this, you will be able to sneak out at night. Now, follow me.”

Brienne did, through a few corridors, until the lady stopped at a hidden door in one of the servants’s hallways. She opened it, and Brienne came with her to find herself in a medium-sized room with a torch lit to the side.

“This,” the lady said, “is a place not many people know exists in the castle. No one will take notice of what happens at this time of the day.”

Then she turned and took a small tourney sword from the only table in the room and handed it to her — Brienne’s mouth parted in wonder.

“How — how did you have one?” She asked.

“Oh, I might have been waiting for you to know what you wanted,” the lady said. Brienne’s fingers curled around the handle, and it felt _right_ , it felt right in ways holding a needle never did. “Now,” the lady went on, “swords never were my expertise. However, they always were my uncle’s.”

“You — have an _uncle_? But I never saw either of you in court! I would have recognized you.”

“That’s because we’re not supposed to be,” the lady winked. “Nonetheless, this is not important. One day you will know why we are doing this, but for now — it’s best left unsaid. Now, he agreed to teach you if you’ll come here every night when you can, at this hour, for as long as you will need to learn. Will you?”

“Of course I will,” she agreed at once. “But — what’s your name?”

“Catelyn,” she smiled, “and that’s all you need to know for now. You have two hours before you should go back to your room. Remember, no one knows about this.”

She nodded, and a moment later Lady Catelyn vanished into thin air.

Oh.

Brienne had figured she had to be some kind of magical creature, but —

“So,” she heard from somewhere behind her shoulders, “do you want to be a knight?”

She turned again, finding herself in front of a man older than Lady Catelyn but with the same auburn hair streaked in grey, the same blue eyes, a scaly armor with a black trout on the front and an impressive sword at his hip… and a tourney one in his hands.

“Yes,” she said, with all the sureness she could muster.

“Then you should start working on your posture,” he said, but not unkindly.

Before the two hours passed, she only got his name out of it — Brynden — and he didn’t even let her use the sword, just corrected her posture and all the ways she was holding it wrong, but when she came back to her room, she felt happier for it.

After all, she assumed, she couldn’t learn everything in one day.

She bore the usual unpleasantness from both her septa and the other children the next day.

Then she came back to that room at the same hour.

And then she came back again.

And again.

— —

By the time she was twelve, she had not told a soul of her nightly escapades, and if anyone noticed her putting on muscle, they never said.

Everyone around her, septa included, still went out of their way to treat her horribly, and _that_ was when she learned that she was cursed — one of the other hostage children told her, and that night she cried again before wiping her eyes and going to see Brynden for her training.

He immediately noticed her red-rimmed eyes and said nothing, merely taught her a few more dirty tricks as he deemed her good enough with a tourney sword at it, and he mentioned giving her a real one soon. Brienne could not wait.

That evening, as she went back into her room, she found Lady Catelyn waiting for her.

“So, you know,” she said.

Brienne nodded. “I do,” she replies. “Is it true? That everyone I will ever love or that might love me will… become as ugly as I am?”

Lady Catelyn shook her head. “I think,” she said, “that everyone who _doesn’t_ love you is just showing how ugly _they_ really are, but — yes. You did not deserve it and you do not remember being cursed, but it is.”

“And — can’t it be broken? Can’t I just do something about it?” She pressed.

“You need to find someone who will see you for what you _really_ are, Brienne,” Lady Catelyn said, “and not your father nor me or my uncle, we are not _humans_. But — just have faith. People who _will_ see behind appearances exist, and aren’t you working up to be the kind of person who defends others?”

“Well, _yes_ , but —”

“Then don’t mind people who are not worth your time. It’s true, but it does not have to define you.”

Then she disappeared, and Brienne could only think about _finally_ handling a proper, real sword, not made for children or for tourneys.

 _Then_ she would show everyone that she could be good at _something_.

— —

By the time Brienne’s first moon blood came, a lot of things had happened.

First and foremost, she was sixteen by then, and she had grown tall, taller than anyone else in court, to the scorn of her peers and most people she interacted with, but that was nothing new, after all. She also had not grown any prettier — the curse stuck, sadly, and her blonde hair turned into straight, pale straw that wouldn’t curl but at most would turn into an unflattering nest, her teeth were slightly crooked, the freckles had become darker and covered her face and neck and shoulders, her breasts stayed small and almost flat over her mannish, tall, large frame, and she had broken her nose twice during fights for which she had been properly scolded.

Once, some of the other hostage boys started being nicer to her, and for a moment she dared hope that at least one of them would see who she really was as Lady Catelyn told her, and then she found out they had bet money on who, out of them, would take her maidenhead first, and from that moment on she decided to never trust anyone who’d compliment her in her life.

But secondly, other than knowing she would never be able to trust easily any more, she had not let that get to her and she had studiously seen Brynden every day when possible — she was exceedingly good with a sword, according to her teacher, and he had told her that she _could_ go out and be a knight if she so wished, and no one could have stopped her as long as she wielded a weapon. The sword he gave her for practice felt like an extension of her hand by now, and Brienne longed to leave court behind. Maybe she could find armor and go to see her father, who had kept on diligently writing to her, and then she could be out in the world doing something she _was_ suited for.

Nonetheless, when her moon blood came, she wasn’t quick enough to burn the sheets. Roelle found out, everyone who saw her leave her room later laughed, of course they did, and she was told that the King would find a suitable match for her now, if anyone was brave enough to even come near her, but then again, _loving_ her was such an impossible feat regardless, they _should_ be able to find someone who’d then find a better mistress.

 _And this only because my father refused to bend the knee at once_ , Brienne thought and never said.

She waited for a fortnight, and then she was told they had found her a husband.

It was a lesser lord than she would have deserved had she kept her title, and he looked upon her in disgust as she was brought to him, dressed in silks that did not suit her. The king hadn’t bothered being present for it, of course. It wasn’t important enough a matter.

Lord Wagstaff said that he would have her in disgust, and only until he knew he had sired a heir on her.

Brienne cleared her throat.

“I will accept,” she said, “only if you best me in battle.”

What of the court was around them laughed, for none of them knew that she _could_ best men in battle and Lord Wagstaff had been a valiant warrior in his day.

He laughed, and asked her if she had just lost her wits.

“No,” she said, “and I will fight you right here and right now, in this dress, to prove it.”

He laughed again, decided that she needed chastisement, and told the servants to give her a sword.

Brienne smiled.

It was not a long fight.

Too bad, Brienne thought, because she had felt alive for the first time in _years_ as she disarmed him and proceeded to break the man’s bloody collarbone without no effort whatsoever, and in such a way that no one could accuse her of having cheated.

Blood flowed to her face as people whispered and asked how could that have happened and if she was some kind of witch _other_ than ugly and cursed, and for a moment Brienne dared hope that she would be sent away to a new life, more suited for her —

That is, until the sword began to _glow_ and burn and she had to let it fall to the ground, and a pair of chains suddenly appeared, binding her hands.

“Too bad,” a female voice said, and Brienne lifted her eyes to meet the blue ones of another lady that resembled Lady Catelyn but looked younger and angrier and meaner, “you just sealed your fate.”

All of a sudden, Brienne knew.

“You’re the one who cursed me,” she whispered.

“And you just signed your death sentence,” the witch smiled. “Oh, my sister could not have known what I had meant when I cursed you to _not come near blades_ , but now she will.”

Brienne opened her mouth, but could say nothing as she felt a taste like blood filling it even if she _knew_ there was no wound inside it.

“You wanted to be a _knight_ so you could rescue yourself, didn’t you? You wanted songs written about you, didn’t you? Well then, from now on you shall stay like _this_ in the loneliest tower in Harrenhal, with one of the king’s dragons to guard you and make sure no one shall pass, and _everyone_ will know that you will curse them with your own ugliness if they try to rescue you, and you won’t age a day until someone is brave or stupid enough to try and free you. And believe me, no one will,” she smiled, and then Brienne’s entire body felt in _pain_ , burning from the inside out, her wrists heavy with scalding chains —

And then both of them were gone.

— —

Once upon a time, there was an abandoned castle named Harrenhal.

It was one place in Westeros everyone steered clear from — the surroundings were long-abandoned, prey of wild animals and with the roads barely acceptable to travel upon, a black and red dragon flew around it and stayed in its woods, and everyone know that the tower held the one princess that no knight ever thought of saving, for she would have cursed with ugliness anyone who would love her or care for her, and for that matter all the legends described her as unattractive, too serious, too slow, wanting things that a woman should never aspire to as they are unbecoming, nothing special if not when she showed the wickedness of her ways; in short, too ugly for anyone to risk anything to save her.

Harrenhal stayed abandoned, aside from the dragon, for centuries.

But somehow, that legend was never quite forgotten. It would always pop up from somewhere, in songs or stories, just enough to make sure people would always be aware that she was there, and no one ever noticed that the times some singer would be inspired by that story, most times it was in taverns where an auburn-haired lady had just appeared and then disappeared, or in her absence, an auburn-haired lord with a few streaks of gray in his hair.

All of Westeros never quite forgot that there was an ugly princess trapped in Harrenhal.

Just, not one single knight ever thought, _maybe I should try to save her_.

Not for a long, long time.

— —

Once upon a (later) time, a green-eyed Kingsguard knight killed his Targaryen king.

Now, this would have been an indisputable crime in the eyes of anyone, for killing one’s king meant dishonoring a Kingsguard’s vow. However, this was not Jaime Lannister’s case.

The facts were these: Aerys II Targaryen, Aegon’s descendant, was that king.

He also was, undoubtedly, mad. That madness had been wrought by paranoia, inability to handle leadership’s pressures, bad counseling that only fueled his paranoia and, last but not least, knowing that the last living dragon in Westeros was in Harrenhal but could not be persuaded to leave it and most likely was cursed to guard that forsaken ugly princess until someone tried to free her, but that matters none, for what matters is that when his murder happened, Aerys had ordered in turn the murder of countless people, neglected the realm and made each of his subject fear him, and that was not even the beginning of his crimes.

Jaime Lannister was the eldest son of Aerys’s once trusted Hand, Tywin: but Tywin was a cold man who cared none for his children as _people_ and who only saw in him his firstborn male heir. Tywin also did not see his daughter Cersei, Jaime’s twin, as more than his only female heir who might bring his family to the throne if she married Prince Rhaegar, Aerys’s eldest son, and loathed his last son Tyrion, for his wife died in his birthing bed and the boy happened to be a dwarf, which Tywin did not take kindly.

What happened was that Cersei saw in Jaime _herself_ and thought him her mirror, and as she wished to be the heir but could not because she was a woman and Jaime was not, they grew up almost inseparable, and she whispered in his ear that they were one and the same and that they were destined to live together and die together and love each other for eternity, and he believed it, for he had no reason not to. He loved her and thought she loved him back, not realizing that it was not _him_ that she loved, but only herself, to the point that he genuinely believed they were the same person. However, they were not: when Cersei only cared for herself and loathed their newborn brother and was overjoyed to hear she would marry the crown prince one day (not telling Jaime any of that, of course), Jaime not only loved his brother, but also grew up wanting to be a knight; he wanted to defend others less lucky or rich as he was, the same way he did his brother growing up, and he dreamed of quests and slaying bandits and wielding a sword, not of his father’s life.

Jaime was indeed extremely gifted with a sword, and that was how he ended up knighted by the then-greatest warrior in the realm, Ser Arthur Dayne: he was fourteen and it was his proudest moment, and he meant every single vow he spoke on that day.

Alas, Cersei convinced him to join the Kingsguard while she was still thinking she _might_ get to marry Rhaegar, who in turn had found a wife for himself regardless, so that they could be together in the Red Keep; when he wasn’t convinced, she seduced him into joining it, not even leaving him time to think about it, and so Jaime took his decision, and join the Kingsguard he did, making his father so angry he resigned his post.

In the next two years, the situation worsened and worsened: Aerys grew paranoid and violated his wife repeatedly, and when Jaime asked his sworn brothers if they could help, he was told that they swore to protect the King above all. And that was what he was told when the King burned alive his enemies, or even just people he was suspicious of, getting worse and worse and worse until Jaime was seventeen and had learned to go away inside his own mind whenever he had to witness any of those atrocities. But that was not why he killed his King.

Now, as you will recall, we did say that Targaryens had magic, or at least most of them did (thankfully Aerys did not): Rhaegar did, though his gift was more premonition than anything else, and that was how he knew that an apocalypse was coming to Westeros and he had to prevent it. Sadly, no one quite knew _what_ exactly had Rhaegar dreamed of or foreseen: just that he was to have three children that would have to ride three dragons against impending doom, even if no dragon bar the one bound to Harrenhal lived in Westeros. When Rhaegar’s wife Elia was unable to carry a third child to term, he fell for a young Northern girl, Lyanna Stark, and eloped with her.

Her family did not take it well, nor her betrothed, Lord Robert Baratheon, and her father and brother went to Aerys to ask for explanations. Aerys, as per his usual antics, had them burned alive in front of him, and in front of Jaime, who at that point was desperately thinking of his sister’s touch and his sister’s smile and her soft voice as she told him they were meant to be together; and after that, the oldest survived Stark, Ned, who also was Robert’s truest friend, agreed to join a rebellion to take down the Mad King and have his sister back.

The rebellion did not, sadly, go well for Rhaegar, who died in a battle with Robert, and just after then Tywin Lannister pledged for the rebels; Aerys did not react kindly to the situation, and just when Tywin was about to sack the city, he decided to light up stacks of wildfire planted all under its fundaments. Jaime, who had heard, could not stand for the Mad King to kill half a million innocent lives, and added to everything else he had to stand through his service, it made the decision easy to take.

So, Jaime slew his king.

Jaime also had the right of it, but that was not what Ned Stark thought as he reached the throne room a long time later, after Rhaegar’s wife and children had been brutally murdered without Jaime knowing that they were in danger and occupied with preventing the wildfire explosion; Ned Stark looked at him with distaste, did not ask why he committed such an act, and Jaime would have cried if he had any tears left in him.

At that point, he was all scorn and hurt and pain, and so he sneered and thought to himself, _if they judge me guilty before hearing me, they do not deserve the truth_.

However, his heart hardened just a tiny bit more with each _kingslayer_ he heard whispered behind his back in the next days.

That was not the end of it, though, for there was _another_ Targaryen who still had magic in the kingdom.

Young Viserys, Aerys’s second son, had been sent away to Dragonstone, their family’s ancient seat, with his mother, who was then pregnant with his sister Daenerys. He still hadn’t grown powerful enough to perform extremely _serious_ spells, and he could see things from afar without being able to do nothing about them. He knew that the war was lost, and he knew that their only dragon was bound to Harrenhal as his mother had explained it, and at eight years old he could do no more than making sure anyone coming to Dragonstone would perish in its waters, which was good enough for the moment — he made it such, so that no one could come for his mother or sister.

But then, he had _seen_ , and all in all, he held no ill will for Jaime Lannister, as he had been one of the nicest knights in the guard before the Rebellion, and he remembered his own father’s cruel worlds and taunts, and as much as he knew it was right for dragons to burn their enemy, he also had seen the scars on Mother’s arms and neck, and he had understood that Jaime would not have wanted to see King’s Landing burn.

He _did_ want to get revenge towards the new King, but all in all, he decided, considering that Lyanna Stark had died in childbirth and her son had been smuggled to Essos by Arthur Dayne, maybe he would have felt worse if Viserys took from him something else he cared much for. And Viserys, who had _seen_ , had not thought fair of the supposed honorable Ned Stark to not even ask Jaime _why_ he slew his father.

He smiled to himself.

He could not perform _serious_ spells, yet.

But he could perform _some_.

— —

Once upon a time, Ned Stark was attending Robert’s coronation, and he heard a voice whisper, _you will not turn back until you have learned to not judge people at once_.

That was the last thing he heard before blinding pain took hold of him and he found himself turned into a grey pigeon with elegant shades of green and purple in his plumage.

Viserys Targaryen smiled at his feat, as the scalding hot water in Dragonstone lapped at his feet and his sister screamed herself raw from the inside of the castle.

Ned Stark did not.

Nor did anyone else at the coronation, but that goes unsaid.

— —

Once upon a time, not much later than that, Cersei was married to Robert Baratheon, Jaime was in the deepest spiral of self-loathing his brother had ever witnessed _anyone_ in, _himself_ included (and while Tyrion was only eleven years old he was not a stranger to such things), and Tyrion was honestly worried about his well-being, period — Cersei had ended their relationship on account of _not wanting to risk her marriage_ but not before she became pregnant (by Jaime, of course), and after that, well, Tyrion could barely recognize the open, solar and kind person his brother used to be.

He was _angry_ now, all the time (but never to him), and he obviously hated himself and considered his honor ruined beyond reparation, and while Tyrion knew that Jaime did not wish to talk about it, he never was much for talking about _himself_ even if he’d listen when _he_ needed to talk to him, he also could not let him fester in his self-hatred much longer.

“Jaime,” he told him one evening, “you _cannot_ do this to yourself.”

“What,” Jaime snorted, “my _duty_?” He shook his head. “Come on, you hear people. It’s _kingslayer_ here, _kingslayer_ there, no one gives a single fuck about why I might have done it or not.”

“You know that you could tell me —”

“Tyrion, I might have fucking failed you for years when I failed to realize that what she was doing to you was her damned true nature, I’m _not_ going to fail you now by telling you any of that. You don’t want to know and I don’t hate you that much. And anyway, what’s the bloody point? Father hates me, Cersei convinced me to take the white and now she only sees her throne, I will never father the child I sired on her, everyone thinks he an oathbreaker and a stain to this cloak, and —” He stopped, and Tyrion could see tears pooling in his green eyes, even if he tried to not let them fall. “— And I have done nothing to honor the vows I spoke when I was knighted. I will go down in history as the kingslayer, and what good has this cloak done to me? Seven hells,” he whispered. “This wasn’t what I wanted.”

“And what is it that you wanted?” Tyrion asked, sitting next to him.

He heard the sob in his brother’s next words, even if he did not speak them while looking at him. “I wanted to be like Ser Arthur,” he said, tears streaming down his face, looking so much younger than he actually _was_ , and he was too young for _this_ in the first place. “I wanted to save maidens and protect the innocents and do good deeds and be brave, and look at me now.”

He buried his face in his hands, and Tyrion knew that if he offered comfort, he would not get it.

So, he decided to try and help him in the best way he knew how, for as much as his father liked to deny it, Tyrion was smart and clever and quick of thought, and he had read endless books and listened to endless songs, and he was sure that there _could_ be a way out of this. He supposed that he would have to figure out a way for Jaime to restore his name, which meant doing something absolutely honorable and that no one could have questioned, but also brave and that would fit fulfilling all the oaths he had once sworn, and if he succeeded at that, well, no one would think him beyond salvation now, would they?

Tyrion thought about it for a while, and then smacked himself in the face, loud enough that Jaime was startled.

“What —” He said.

“I know how you can restore your reputation,” Tyrion said excitedly.

“… I can’t,” Jaime protested. “I killed my king. You don’t _restore your reputation_ after that.”

“Jaime, listen to me a moment. How many times you told me the story of the princess in Harrenhal?”

“What — the one who was cursed to turn everyone around her as ugly as she was and who has that dragon bound to her?”

“Yes!” Tyrion exclaimed. He had always felt ambivalent for that story, because he had figured that if the girl was cursed to ugliness and to turn everyone else ugly maybe she was like his sister, who was the ugliest person Tyrion knew on the inside bar his father… but what if she was like _him_ instead, and only ugly on the outside, and no one ever bothered to save her because everyone judged her for his looks the same as they did _him_? “Think about it one moment. No one has ever even _tried_ to rescue her, and people say that only someone either too brave or too reckless would even think about risking that curse. She’s still there, isn’t she?”

“Well, _yes_ ,” Jaime said, and Tyrion saw that he could see where he was aiming at.

“Then go and do it yourself,” Tyrion pressed. “Think about it. No one ever was _brave or reckless_ enough to give it a try, you should fight a dragon to get to her so no one could call you craven, and if she’s really that hateful then you’ve seen enough of it with our sister and you can handle her, if she’s not then you will have rescued someone worthy who got cursed unjustly or _something_ — either way, no one would question your bravery, you would have done something not even Ser Arthur thought of doing, you would have done something good and you surely would feel better about yourself. What do you have to lose anyway?”

Jaime looked at him, pensive, turning the thought over in his head. Tyrion couldn’t know that he was thinking, _and even if she’s ugly, in between Aerys and Cersei, what have I turned into? Most likely someone as ugly and hateful as them. No curse could touch me_. But even with those false notions, the plan sounded fair, and the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. And at worst, if the dragon incinerated him, it would just be payment for the deaths of the princess and Rhaegar’s children and for failing to protect the Queen, wouldn’t it? His father hated him regardless and Cersei didn’t want him anymore, and the King cared naught for him, still inconsolable for the loss of his right hand man.

For the first time since he was accepted into the Kingsguard, Jaime Lannister smiled.

“You know what,” he said, “you’re right.”

“Wait, you’ll do it?” Tyrion asked in excitement.

“Why not?” Jaime smiled down at him, wiping at his eyes. “Sounds like a knightly quest, after all.”

 _Maybe_ , he thought as they held each other later, _maybe I can have a last chance at honor_.

— —

The King did not care for his decision and told him that if he wished to die in Harrenhal, he cared nothing for it.

Cersei tried to convince him to stay, but Jaime could barely even look at her, and left her with a burning hand-shaped bruise on his cheek and her voice screaming behind him that he was downright _stupid_ for doing such a thing, the stupidest of them all.

Jaime didn’t tell her that he knew already, did not even inform his father, took his sword, armor and cloak and his horse and left in the early morning.

Mere minutes after he left the castle, a grey pigeon with wings tinged green-purple landed on his horse’s head, and Jaime stopped it.

The pigeon glared at him.

Literally glared.

Jaime, who knew who it was same as the entire court even if No One In Court Talked About _That_ , was not at all impressed.

“What,” he said, “you’re coming with _me_ now?”

The pigeon kept on glaring.

Jaime shrugged. “Fucking suit yourself,” he said, figuring that if Ned Stark really wished to come with, he was no one to stop him from doing such a thing. As if he gave a fuck about _Ned Stark’s_ predicament when the man couldn’t even look at him without judging his deeds and when he’d rather worry about the princess.

— —

Now: Jaime had never thought that traveling with a pigeon could be so _unnerving_.

Admittedly, that was _not_ a real pigeon, it was _Ned Stark_ being turned into one, but the bird could stare at a man worse thank a hawk.

“You know,” Jaime told him two days after leaving King’s Landing, “if you hate me that much you didn’t have to come with.”

The pigeon just glared at him even harder.

“Whatever,” Jaime shrugged. “As if I understood you when you were a _man_.” Then he threw a few crumbs of bread the pigeon’s way. Ned did _not_ eat them. “Fucking suit yourself,” Jaime said, and went to sleep.

He slept for maybe a few hours, and he woke up screaming, smelling burning flesh and longing for his sister’s touch, except that when was it ever given to comfort him or help him out? He couldn’t remember. He could remember all the times she had sought it for herself, or all the times after Aerys and before she ended their relationship where he would have to turn her blows into kisses in order to receive any in the first place.

He turned on his back, reaching for his canteen of water.

The pigeon was staring at him _again_ , even if he seemed somehow less judging.

“I can’t bloody believe this,” Jaime said, and didn’t go back to sleep until morning.

He couldn’t know that Ned was thinking, _neither do I_.

— —

The ride to Harrenhal was, admittedly, _boring_. Not that Jaime had expected anything specifically, but certainly not to just spend those couple of weeks riding on his own with just bloody Ned Stark for company — and he was pretty sure that the guano he found on his cloak one morning belonged to _him_ , damn his soul to the Seven Hells — and an empty, abandoned road in front of him that became less and less easy to travel with each passing mile.

That made sense, at least, for everyone knew Harrenhal was cursed and no one had tried to set foot in it for centuries; however, quests in songs and fairytale books certainly were more lively than all his trudging along.

“Hells,” he murmured to himself one day, “this was not what I had imagined when I was squiring.”

He cursed himself a moment later when he realized Stark had heard, but the pigeon merely nibbled at some seeds he had found around the area, glared at him again and gone back to his food.

If anything, he decided, the castle was only a couple days’s ride from his camp.

Maybe _then_ he would have some excitement. It wouldn’t do if he went back to King’s Landing informing everyone that in order to rescue the princess he just had to walk up the stairs.

— —

Just as he rode up to Harrenhal’s walls, Jaime noticed that maybe he _would_ have to put some effort into this enterprise, as the entire castle was covered in thorns and brambles and the main gate had been crushed under rubble.

He cursed under his breath, leaving his horse tied to the nearest tree on the outside, and considered climbing over the rubble, but it was too high and regardless of how long it had been there, it seemed quite unstable — no, better not to tempt fate.

“Damn,” he said, “might as well try to find a different way in.”

He tried to go all the way around the walls, but they all seemed covered in thorns and about to crash, and Jaime figured that he would try to climb in the lowest point he could find —

That is, until he heard _annoyed_ cooing from over his head.

“Stark,” he huffed, “the fuck do you want?”

The pigeon sent him a fairly nonplussed stare and flied forward, and Jaime realized he wanted him to follow.

He sighed, figuring that he was going to lose nothing by doing so, and he followed the pigeon for a while, until the bird stopped flying near to a small place in the walls where one could see a hole in between the stones. Stark flew in between them, and Jaime realized that if he took off his heavy armor he _would_ fit.

He huffed.

“Thank you,” he said begrudgingly, and took off the armor, leaving it on the outside. He kept the white cloak and the sword and made his way under the rubble, to find himself on the other side not worse for wear and only having dirtied his white clothes.

 _A small price to pay in comparison to having a piece of rock fall on me_ , he decided, and tried to take in his surroundings. He was in the castle’s godswood — he supposes that Stark was praying to the Old Gods as he flied to the nearest heart tree. The ground was unkempt and the grass was tall under his boots, but other than that, he could sense no other danger nearby.

Good. Now, the legend did _not_ say in which tower the princess was kept, and it was five of them, but he knew he would have to slay the dragon before attempting to rescue her, and he supposed he could get that information from him, or maybe plead with Stark to fly up to the towers and tell him the right one if the damned bird was going to be amenable to help him out. So, it was time to find the dragon. Surely it would be out of the godswood, to start with. He walked out of the place, the pigeon still flying above his head threateningly, and he was about to leave the wood —

Until a man appeared out of nowhere in front of him.

He was maybe a few years older than Jaime, with auburn hair, bright blue eyes and a red, white and blue doublet with a trout embroidered on the front.

“What in the Seven Hells are you?” Jaime asked, his hand going to his sword’s hilt.

“Maybe _who_ ,” the man smiled back, but he didn’t look dangerous.

“Right, then _who_ are you?”

“Edmure,” he said, not supplying a last name. “And I suppose you’re the first person who actually showed here wanting to rescue the princess?”

“I might be,” Jaime said. “And what does it change to you?”

“To _me_? Nothing,” Edmure said, “but let’s say that my family has… stakes in this story, so to speak.”

“Well, if somehow you already know who I am and what I have done and want to tell me to leave, fuck off. I came this far and I am not turning back.”

“Please,” Edmure said, “I would have already made sure you were out of here if I thought you were here for nefarious reasons, and I know you’re not.”

“… You _know_?”

“That’s no matter. Very well, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime didn’t ask him how he knew his name.

“I see that your intentions are true, and the gods know she would have deserved something such as that a long time ago. And I think I want to help you, even if I am not supposed to meddle with things around here.”

“You’re not?”

“No, but she’s here for a wrong my family made her and I decided I don’t really care much for what I’m supposed to do.” Suddenly, he produced a sword out of thin air, and it was a _beautiful_ one — Jaime immediately recognized the black and red Valyrian steel of the blade, his mouth parting in awe, and then his eyes fell on the sword.

“That’s a _Lannister_ hilt,” he said, looking at the golden lion carved in pure gold with a ruby right in the center.

“I should hope you would recognize it,” Edmure replied. “It’s yours. _For now_.”

“… For now?”

“Let’s call it a loan and we shall see what you do with it.”

“This is a test, isn’t it?” Jaime said, taking the sword anyway because facing a dragon with Valyrian steel seemed a way better bet than facing it with his own sword.

“It is,” Edmure said, “but we will never know if you might pass if I tell you _what_ it is. Take it. We shall see each other again.”

Then he disappeared, and Jaime decided that it was time to get ahead and find the damned dragon.

— —

The dragon was in the bear pit.

It was not hard to locate it, though it was harder to make way through the rubble and desolation of the castle. Jaime didn’t waste time thinking about strategies — the dragon seemed intent on minding its own business, so perhaps if he just launched himself straight at it he could take it by surprise.

Sure, it was a large dragon, black as the darkest night with scales red as blood, but it still could be surprised, Jaime thought.

The pigeon did _not_ seem very impressed with his course of action, but Jaime ignored him, jumped into the bear pit, took the sword in hand, prepared himself to launch at the dragon —

“Oh, _finally_ ,” the dragon said, turning towards him, and Jaime stopped dead in his tracks, sword in hand and all.

“… Finally?” Jaime replied, feeling completely out of his depth.

“Do you know how many years I waited for someone to get here and free that poor girl?”

“… Around three hundred?” Jaime asked, feeling as if someone had opened the ground from under his feet. He wasn’t supposed to _talk_ to the dragon. He was supposed to _slay_ it!

“Exactly! You would think _some_ brave knight would have shown up,” the dragon sighed. “Alas. Bourgeois posers, all of them. But I see that you are not one of them.”

“… I’m _not_?”

“Well, _yes_ , you might have broken a few vows, but it was for a good reason and, all in all, you have nothing to lose but your chains, my lad.”

That was when Jaime noticed that there was a _pile of books_ in the corner of the bear pit.

“… What are those,” Jaime asked.

“Well,” the dragon said, “I’ve been here three centuries. You get bored at some point. And I schooled myself. You wouldn’t know the things I learned,” he kept on, lovingly stroking the surface of a large, large tome with one of his wings. Jaime squinted and tried to read the title. _The Capital_ , it said. He didn’t dare ask what capital of whose land it might have been.

“Anyhow,” the dragon went on, “I see that you are in a hurry and I do not want to keep you — _I_ , my lad, am not your quest. The princess is at the top of the Tower of Ghosts — mind your step, that one is hardly stable. Well, somewhat less stable than this entire castle. You _are_ here to rescue her, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m here to rescue her!”

“Great,” the dragon said, “that means _I_ am free from the curse. Finally I can go do what I was always meant to.”

“… As in?”

“My lad,” the dragon smiled, “there’s a specter haunting Westeros, and Essos as well, and I shall make sure that the people know they have nothing to lose but their chains, _as do you_. Good luck!” The dragon said, and then he gathered the books in his claws before taking flight and leaving Jaime alone in the bear pit, extremely confused and not at all enlightened when it came to what he had just heard.

If anything, he decided, he had heard _two_ magical creatures informing him that the girl in question was _not_ , apparently, his sister reincarnated.

He figured it was better than nothing, and he headed for the Tower of Ghosts.

— —

The tower was in fact in dire conditions — it looked about to crumple on itself. However, if the girl was on the top, he supposed magic was keeping it up. Ned Stark flew next to the door, but then he jerked back, regaining control of his wings before he tumbled unceremoniously on the ground. Jaime tried to get close to the entrance… and nothing happened.

He smiled.

“Maybe I’m not _so_ worthless, uh?” He asked, smirking.

Stark glared at him.

Jaime fixed both swords at his hip and opened the door.

— —

The stairs trembled under his feet as he walked up, and up, and _up_ , and after a while he realized that something must have gone awry because there was no way that tower was _this_ tall. Suddenly, he saw a door on his right, and he assumed that it led to a chamber. Not at the top of it, but as he could not see the end of the stairs and he was dead tired, he supposed he could stop there for a few minutes and catch his breath.

He opened the door.

It was a small room with only a cot, not so different from his bunk in King’s Landing. He sighed, removing both swords but placing the Valyrian steel one on the mattress for safekeeping. Then he laid down on the uncomfortable mattress — he realized he hadn’t slept in a long time, and the last time he did he dreamed of Aerys and his nephews’s bodies covered in blood, and… yes. He would rest for a bit. Just a bit.

He closed his eyes and he dreamed.

— —

In his dream, he wore no clothes and his feet were planted in the cold water under Casterly Rock.

In his dream, he opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by his Kingsguard brothers, Rhaegar, his children and Aerys’s laughter, and he had no sword nor armor, and when all of them asked him _why_ he killed his king and why did he let the princess and the children die words would not come to him and he would feel as if he had bitten down on his tongue and blood was flooding his mouth. Cersei was with them, to the side, and when he thought _please stay with me_ she laughed and left, while his father, next to her, turned his back on him with a sneer of disdain.

 _I’m alone_ , he thought, _I’m alone and with no voice and I have no sword and I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I never wanted any of this, I didn’t know, I had no idea_ , and then he raised his eyes to meet Queen Rhaella’s sad, pale violet ones, her wrists scarred with blood dripping down and her legs covered in red, too, and he thought of all the times he heard her screaming behind the door, all the times he _didn’t_ come to her even if he swore a vow, _he swore too many vows_ —

“Ser?” A voice said from his left. A sad, female voice.

He turned to find himself in front of a young girl with pale, pearly skin, as tall as he was or maybe a bit more, with large shoulders, small breasts and straw-like hair, as naked as he was. She had a broken nose, too-full lips and crooked teeth, and for a moment he thought she was _ugly_ , before noticing that her arms and legs were all muscle the way _all good swordsmen are,_ same as her stomach, and then he thought, _maybe she doesn’t look like a lady, but she’d make a fine knight, maybe_ , and then his eyes met a pair of large, sad blue ones, and oh, now _those_ were astonishing, pretty eyes.

“Ser,” she pleaded, “a sword, if you would be so good?” She looked about to cry. Her wrists were bound in chains, Jaime noticed.

He wished he could answer, but his mouth was full of blood and Aerys’s laugh was too loud, and he woke up bathed in cold sweat with another scream leaving his lips.

The pigeon was staring at him from outside the window.

Jaime strapped both swords to his hips, put on his dirty white cloak and ran upstairs.

— —

The stairs stopped not long later.

Jaime was sure that what he just experienced had been some other kind of magic.

Maybe someone wanted to send him a message.

He took a deep breath and opened the door on top of the tower.

And then he stopped dead in his tracks.

The room was small and badly furnished and badly lit, and the walls were falling apart on themselves.

But that mattered none, because in front of him there was the same girl from the dream — gods, looking at her now she was indeed barely seven and ten, even if she was as tall as he and broader. Her pale skin was covered in freckles, he noticed, and she wore mail and loose breeches, not a gown. She also was standing against the wall, her eyes closed, still as a corpse, her hands bound in chains.

Jaime swallowed, coming closer.

He cleared his throat. Nothing happened.

He wondered, _how do I rescue her now_ , as nothing had made him think she would be… like this.

But then he remembered his dream.

 _She wanted a sword,_ he thought. He looked down at his hip, where he had both his old, regular one he slew Aerys with and the brand new Valyrian steel Edmure gave him.

For a moment, he thought to reach for his sword and to give it to her, but then a pang of guilt took him, so strong he almost swayed on his feet.

She had looked so young, in his dream. Guileless, well-meaning, and sad, and she looked like she was born to hold a blade in her arms. He would know. And ugly as she looked, she deserved better than a sword belonging to a known oathbreaker that was used to break his most sacred vow.

Jaime reached for the Valyrian steel and its Lannister handle, unhooking it from his belt.

He reached for one of her bound hands.

“You wanted a sword,” he asked softly, “didn’t you?”

He closed her fingers around the hilt, taking a step back —

Suddenly, the room was awash in light. Warm, soft, bright light. Her chains glowed before falling off into pieces, her fingers wrapping tight around the hilt, and then her eyes opened as she took a deep, shaky breath, and oh, they were as blue as in his dream. She blinked once, twice, her fingers wrapped around that hilt as if her life depended on it, then she finally looked at him and her mouth fell open for a moment. Her teeth were slightly crooked. Same as in his dream.

“My lady?” He asked, his voice barely audible.

“Oh,” she whispered, her voice rough from centuries of disuse, looking at him as if he was the most beautiful thing she had ever laid her eyes upon, “I — I dreamed of you.”

Then she closed her eyes and fainted on the ground, her fingers still wrapped around the hilt, and Jaime barely caught her before she hit her head.

— —

She woke up not long later, those blue eyes blinking open — Jaime had sat her down carefully against the wall, taking notice of her old, badly-kept mail. She was indeed the same as in his dream, with those swordsman’s muscles and large hands and small breasts and straw-like hair, but the moment her eyes opened and she looked at him in utter, complete gratefulness, he felt like someone had just opened the ground from under his feet — when had it been the last time someone looked at him like _that_?

Jaime could not remember.

He cursed having left his canteen downstairs, but a moment later the damned pigeon flew inside the window, bringing it around his neck.

Oh. So he _definitely_ un-cursed the tower, he supposed.

“Here,” he told the princess, “you might want to drink.”

She nodded gratefully, downing half of the water, and then cleared her throat again.

“Thank you,” she told him, her voice almost shy, but sounding so sincere his knees almost buckled from it. Not many people had been sincere to him, lately, after all. “Ser, I — I cannot even begin to explain how much I owe you, but —”

“My lady,” he interrupted her, marveling at how someone was looking at him with admiration and respect and awe rather than scorn, “I — I came here of my own accord and rescuing you was the plan all along. You would not owe me for something I freely chose to accomplish myself, wouldn’t you?”

Her lips parted, her hands wrapping around the gold of the sword’s hilt.

“Ser, I do not think you understand how I came to be here,” she told him, looking down at her hands, “and believe me, I owe you for having come without fearing, uh, to be cursed. And this is — this is too good a sword,” she said, finally noticing the details of it. “I —”

“Please,” he said, “keep it. Mine has suited me well until now, and I obtained this just recently. I think it was meant for you.”

She nodded, and she sounded about to speak again, but a moment later the ground under their feet trembled.

“Oh, _hells_ ,” Jaime said, “I think that now that you’re awake this won’t hold up much longer. We should go, Lady —”

“Right,” she said, standing up, the skin under her freckles flushing, “Brienne.”

“Jaime,” he introduced himself. “And I think we should talk after we avoid the tower crashing down on us, unless you’re already missing eternal sleep.”

“Not at all,” she smiled, slightly, her crooked teeth peering from her lips, and as he ushered her downstairs, the pigeon flying ahead of them, Jaime wondered, _who should_ she _curse out of anyone? She doesn’t have an inch of malice in her_.

Well. He would find out later, he supposed.

— —

They ran from the tower, following Ned back to the godswood and the hole in the wall; Brienne barely passed through it and Jaime pushed his armor through the stones before crawling back outside himself.

As he stood, the tower collapsed on itself.

“Good riddance,” she said, and Jaime set on putting back his armor.

“Oh,” she said, finally noticing its color. “You’re in the Kingsguard?”

He tried to not scoff.

“Yes,” he said, not adding _and I wish I was not_.

“I — I wished to be in it, once,” she said, wistfully.

Jaime’s breath got caught in his throat. “You did?”

“You do not think me… pathetic for wanting such a thing when women cannot even be knights? Unless things changed since I… was cursed.”

“No,” he said, “things did not change, but the Targaryens don’t rule Westeros anymore. Might it be that you would convince the new king,” he shrugged, even if he did not trust Robert at all, but… no point in disappointing her, he supposed. “And let me tell you, I am… curious as to how you ended up in that tower. Because nothing I have seen until now matches with… the stories told about you.”

“I suppose it would not,” she sighs. “And you did get me out of there. I will tell you when we’re far enough from here, if it’s fine with you.”

“Of course,” he nodded, and then realized that he did not, in fact, bring two horses. He knew he was red in the face as he turned to Brienne. “Uh, my lady, I only had one. If you do not mind I suppose we should share. Or I could walk.”

“Nonsense,” she told him, “you _saved_ me, of course sharing will be fine.”

They traveled on the same horse, her riding up behind him, and if Jaime thought she felt warm and not as hard as she had seemed looking at her as his back met her chest, no one had to know.

— —

They made camp later, far from the ruins. Brienne sat down, placing the sword on the ground reverently, and then took a breath and told him everything — how she grew up alone in King’s Landing, how she had trained in secret to be a knight, how she owed the only happiness in her life to Lady Catelyn and Lord Brynden, how the witch had cursed her twice, and how the last thing she had thought, just before she slept for three centuries, was that no one would ever come for her.

“And then,” she said, still blushing under her freckled skin, “I dreamed sometimes. I don’t remember most of them, of course, but — at some point I dreamed I was in an underground wet cave.”

“Did you,” Jaime said, trying to not let his hands shake.

“Yes. I was chained, and someone was next to me, and it was you. I know it was you. I stared at your face before that dream faded. You looked… troubled,” she finally concluded.

“I was,” he sighed, “and I had the same dream, that same night, I think.”

“Oh,” Brienne said, still blushing. “Well, then — I hope you are not regretting it.”

Jaime scowled, shaking his head. “Why would I?” He asked. “Of course I am not.”

She looked back up at him, and gods, Jaime had _missed_ being looked at with gratefulness and admiration, as shameful as it felt to admit it.

“Well,” she said, “you have seen me.” She sounded sad at that. “And I suppose that if it took three centuries for someone to come — I mean, there was the curse to think of.”

Jaime, who up to this point failed to see _anything_ wrong with her for obvious reasons, shook his head. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t know how that curse was supposed to work, and fine, you’re hardly what anyone would think of when picturing a… beautiful woman, I suppose, but there’s nothing _wrong_ with you. The most beautiful woman I know is… a loathsome and hateful person. You have just told me that you only ever wanted to be a knight, and since I do don this cloak, I also only ever wanted the same. I don’t feel _uglier_ for having been near you, and admittedly, I am starting to think that _you_ have nothing to do with it.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “People heard that they would turn ugly if they _loved_ you or cared for you, so they were… _ugly_ in return to you out of wanting to prevent it, I suppose. And _that_ might have turned them ugly for real. But you haven’t done anything despicable for now, I didn’t even have to _fight_ the dragon and leaving you there another three hundred years would have been downright cruel. Of course I don’t regret it.”

She swallowed, once, twice, then hastily wiped her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, sounding like she was about to cry, and then she excused herself and went to sleep, keeping the sword close to her.

Jaime felt like someone had grabbed his heart in a fist and _squeezed_ , and not the ways it did when he pictured Cersei’s hands doing it.

A moment later, the pigeon flew down, glaring at him.

Jaime immediately knew what he was about to ask.

“Fuck you,” he said, not courteously. “Yes, _yes_ , I should have told her, but fuck you. Someone isn’t looking at me like I’m scum and I have shit for honor, I’m not in any fucking hurry to change it.”

Because — of course she _would_ change her mind, if she knew. Everyone did, except for Tyrion, but Tyrion was his brother and it was different. And — she was so honorable, so _principled_ , so eager to go out in the world and be a knight herself even if she knew she couldn’t ever be officially, and what would she think of him if she knew he killed his king? When he was donning that cloak?

No, Jaime thought as he went to sleep himself — the fucking pigeon could keep watch. He would keep it for himself as long as possible. He figured she would have hated him anyway, so better to make this last as long as possible.

He snorted. _She_ thought she was ugly, and here it was, lying to her because he couldn’t bear the idea of someone he had known for less than one day thinking him an oathbreaker. No, if any of the two of them was, that was _him_ , and maybe that was why that curse couldn’t take hold of him. How could it, when he was entirely worse than she could ever conceive of being?

— —

The next day, the pigeon stayed perched on Brienne’s shoulder all the time. She seemed delighted of it. Jaime was _not_ , but he begrudgingly informed that he was named Ned and no, he had no idea of how he was cursed.

“Well,” Brienne told him, feeding him grains, “if _I_ could be freed, surely you can.” She smiled down at the pigeon, who looked positively smitten with her.

Of course he was, Jaime thought, rolling his eyes and saying nothing.

But then, she turned serious. “I was wondering,” she asked, “if you know what has become of Tarth? It was… my homeland, even if I have not seen it in my entire life.”

She sounded sad. Jaime wished he could give her better news, but sadly, he had none. “It has been ruled by a Targaryen castellan since the conquest,” he said. “I am sorry.”

She sighed. “I imagined it would have been.” She bites down on her lip. “I never met my father,” she confesses. “I only ever received his letters.”

 _A better one than mine_ , Jaime thought and did not say.

“Well,” he told her, “I told you there has been a rebellion. The current king is… not really the staunchest Targaryen supporter. May it me that if you ask it of him he might give you back your title,” he said, even if he was not sure at all that _Robert_ would do such a thing.

Still, she seemed pleased at the idea, although not enthusiastic. “I do not know,” she confessed. “I mean, I have been… cursed for this long. Why would people want _me_? They don’t know me, I know nothing of ruling anywhere and who would even take me seriously as a _lady_?” She shook her head. “But I would like to just… see it, I suppose. Maybe see my father’s grave. And anyway… you freed me, but that doesn’t mean the curse was lifted.”

“I’m starting to believe it was a very poorly worded curse,” Jaime said. “But nonetheless, you should ask. If anything, you would have a place to go back to, should you need it.”

He did not know, at the moment, that Brienne was wondering why he would sound so sad as he said it.

— —

Things were quiet for the next few days on the road, bar Ned’s constant glaring as he puffed his feathers.

Jaime talked to Brienne some more after figuring out that she was not too talkative herself, finding out that she liked the same legend and songs that he used to enjoy when he was younger, that she had vowed to uphold knightly vows the moment she could even if she could never be one herself in name, that she meant every single word when she said she wanted to be the best knight anyone could ask for. They sparred together once, and he was not _entirely_ surprised to see that she was almost as good as him, though less experienced — he won that fight, but just because she was younger and had obviously never handled Valyrian steel, even if she immediately took to it, and had never fought anyone the way _he_ had. But — Seven Hells, he thought as their blades kissed — not only she was fast and strong and with quick reflexes, but she seemed to dance with that sword in her hand, as if she was born to hold it, and he was only too glad to have given it to her instead of keeping it for himself.

By the time he won, he felt like he had just remembered all the reasons why he ever sworn his own vows, too. And she did not seem too sad to lose — she merely told him that she would have liked to spar tomorrow, too.

And of course he said yes, because why wouldn’t he want to do it with a partner who matched him and who did not look down upon him as their blades met?

 _Gods_ , he wondered, _can I last the entire trip to King’s Landing without telling her so she won’t hate me until I cannot postpone it anymore_?

He dared hope so. He _dared_.

— —

Later that night, they happened across an inn.

Jaime was not surprised to see that it was manned and ran by a girl who was at most four and ten and was the eldest in the entire place, for the Rebellion had been bloody and not merciful, and had left too many orphans behind to count; all the others were even younger. Brienne did look stricken with grief as they asked for two rooms, food and drink — it had been a long trip and Jaime longed for a proper bed, as uncomfortable as it might have been. The girl did seem to recognize him, but she said nothing and did nothing other than glaring at him and taking his gold.

“This is horrible,” Brienne said later, as they sat in the inn, eating chicken while Ned Stark stared at them with horrified pigeon eyes as he nibbled on some bread Brienne handed him before.

“What,” Jaime replied, “the food, the place or everything at once?”

“The food is good.” She shook her head. “But — children should not _run inns_.”

“Well, the girl is only two years younger than _you_ are, if we do not count the whole part where you’ve been around for three centuries.”

“Still, I wanted it,” Brienne said. “I don’t think _she_ did.”

The pigeon cooed.

Jaime could not disagree. After all, he _did_ give up his reputation also to save the lives of orphans such as their inn staff, had he not? Even if he was scarcely older than them.

He drank some of his ale.

Then one of the children came inside screaming, saying that the Bloody Mummers were just outside and they took Willow, and the girl who gave them the room suddenly paled.

And so did Jaime.

“Who are these Bloody Mummers?” Brienne asked, her hand going to the sword at her side.

“A group of mercenaries,” Jaime supplied. A group of mercenaries he would have enjoyed slaying, once upon a time, except that one of them was under his father’s service during the Rebellion, and so no one took care of them _._ “They have been terrorizing the area for a while,” he supplied. “No one is hiring them, after the Rebellion.”

They both stood as they saw the children move to the windows, while all the other patrons in the inn not so quietly headed upstairs. Jaime could see eight of them on the outside, and one of the girls, barely ten, _maybe_ , most likely that Willow, was being held in between two of them, and her clothes were being torn off, and Jaime suddenly felt like throwing up, remembering how he could not save his queen from her husband, remembering how Princess Elia had died, his hands shaking, and it was _eight_ of them, and he knew from their fame that they were all good fighters —

“Is that Willow?” Brienne asked to one of the other children.

“Yes,” the boy cried. “They’ll do to her what they did to Jeyne a moon ago, won’t they?”

Jaime heard the leader shout that they would eventually have _all_ of them.

Brienne’s eyes turned hard, and her hand went to her sword.

“I am going out,” she said.

“ _What_?” Jaime hissed back. “Brienne, it’s _two_ of us and eight of them. As good as we both are there is no way —”

“I know,” she said, “that there is no chance. But what knight would I be if I didn’t do it? I might have no chance,” she kept on, a sweet, sad smile gracing her homely features, “but I also have no choice. You don’t have to come — you are sworn to the King, I understand. But I cannot stay.”

Then she opened the door and walked out in the rain, unsheathing her Valyrian steel sword, as Jaime stared horrified at her back — she had no armor! — and then she said —

“Leave her be. If you want to rape someone, rape me.”

She sounded calm. She sounded sure. She sounded every inch like the knight he always dreamed he might be.

“Oh, fuck that,” Jaime said, unsheathing his own sword and following her out. “Excuse me, but you won’t take all the fun for yourself, my lady.”

Before he could look at her, though, one of the men laughed. “What am I seeing,” he snarled. “The Kingslayer defending innocents? What has the world come to? And is that a _man_ next to you?”

Jaime’s sickness suddenly turned into fury.

He didn’t even glance at Brienne, just — lunged forward.

But when he did check on her as he handled _that_ one man, he saw that she had already cut down one of those mercenaries, and oh, even surrounded by three others she looked like she could handle all of them on her own, and as he tried to fight the three coming at him, he figured that if he died here at least it would have been remembered as his one honorable deed —

That is, until a storm of pigeons came up from behind them and started pecking at their adversaries.

 _What in the Seven Hells,_ Jaime thought as suddenly he wasn’t being fought anymore but _all_ the bloody mummers were too busy trying to get the aforementioned birds from plucking at their skin and eyes.

He shared a glance with Brienne, who seemed equally perplexed, but then mouthed, _we need to take advantage_ , and that was fair, so he did, and they cut down all of the mercenaries without much effort, not when they weren’t fighting back.

When they had eight corpses littering the ground, the pigeons left in a flurry of grey wings. All but one, who perched on one of the corpses, staring at them with a certain satisfied look to his tiny eyes.

“Seven Hells,” Jaime sighed, “now I’ve fucking seen it all. But _thank you_ , Lord Stark.”

Jaime had the impression that the damned pigeon was secretly smirking.

He decided to ignore the implications of what he had just thought as he sheathed back his sword.

And then —

“Ser Jaime?” Brienne asked, her eyes wide under the rain falling upon them, blood running over her sword’s blade. “Why — why did he call you _kingslayer_?”

 _Well_ , Jaime thought, _I guess I can’t postpone the moment where she hates me anymore_.

“I will tell you,” he sighed. “Just not here.”

— —

Jaime invited her to his room — a fire was going, but he felt cold nonetheless as he got rid of his wet armor and sat down in front of her on the only bed. There were no chairs. Rain was pouring outside. The pigeon was perched over the fireplace, to Jaime’s dismay, but he couldn’t postpone this any more.

“Very well,” he said. “I — would have told you, I swear. Just… I was… never mind that. I told you that there was a rebellion and the last Targaryen king died.”

“You did.”

He took a deep breath.

“That was because _I_ killed him,” he said, forcing himself to look at her in the eyes, wondering, _will she hate me at once as everyone else did_?

Her mouth turned into a thin line then, her eyes widening in surprise, but then she merely nodded, and —

“Why?” She asked, and suddenly Jaime felt as if the ground had opened from under his feet.

“I — sorry?”

“Why did you do it?” She pressed, her brows furrowing in confusion. “I did not think it would be such a strange question to ask.”

Jaime, who at that point felt like fainting, merely shook his head. “No one asked it until now,” he whispered. “I — was not expecting it,” he admitted.

Brienne’s expression turned even more confused for a moment, before she cleared her throat.

“Ser Jaime,” she said, and oh, the way _she_ used it, as if she meant it and not to mock him, felt like balm to his ears, “that is… a heinous crime, in itself, _but_ I should like to remind you that I was cursed because of a Targaryen king who also never let me meet my father, and that I stayed in that tower for three hundred years, and somehow not only _you_ were the only person who deigned to come, but you also have never mocked me for… what I want to be. Forgive me if I would like to know _why_ you would do such a thing before I judge you an oathbreaker.”

He felt like crying at that point, but he tried not to — it would not do. He had one chance to explain himself and she was willing to listen, somehow, and so he would not waste it.

He sighed and told her about his childhood and his sister and his brother, not saving anything, including _how_ he went into the Kingsguard, and to Brienne’s credit she did not look at him with distaste as he spoke.

“So,” he said, “I joined the Kingsguard, and I swear, I was happy to. I wanted to do my duty. But — then I found out that not only the king was mad and saw me as some sort of personal possession, which… I suppose was the truth, at the bottom of it, but he killed anyone he thought had crossed him by burning them alive, even if it was just a suspicion. And he raped his wife — his _sister_ — every other night or so, and I had to stand outside the door, and every time I would ask any of my brothers, they — they said we swore to protect _him_ and that oath trumped everything else and I should not be asking myself any more questions.” He swallowed, trying to not cry just recalling it.

“When his son caused the rebellion because he ran away with this other noblewoman, her father and oldest brother came to protest, as was their right. He — he had the father slowly burning inside his own armor while the other was tied so that he’d suffocate himself trying to free him. I had to watch the entire thing. It was not the first time I had to witness such a thing,” he kept on, and he heard wings flutter behind him, but at this point he had closed his eyes, unable to look at her in the face as he told her, the shame of having stood there going away inside too strong to do anything. “I served him for two years. Then — his son came back and they organized their strategy and left me to man the entire castle. I begged to have someone else stay, but he told me to hold on until things got better after he won, and so it was on me to guard the king, the princess and her children. But — when it was obvious that the war was lost and the city was under siege — it was my father, not that I am proud of that —, I heard the king talking to a pyromancer. He had stashed wildfire under the city, the whole of it, and he had given the order to burn it all because he would rather have it in ashes than leave it to the rebels. It was — half a million people. And the pyromancer _would_ have obeyed that order. I had no choice,” he said, horrified to find that his voice was pleading, “I had to kill him. Or he would have burned it all. But while I was preventing _that_ , one of my father’s men murdered the princess and both her children and I had no idea of it, but then — everyone assumed that I knew and let it happen and that I had slain the king out of oathbreaking only. No one asked me why I did it, they just drew their conclusions, and — I didn’t bother telling them otherwise, because would they have believed me? I don’t think so.”

He stopped, breathed in again. “So, that’s why they call me like that,” he admitted quietly. “I hate it. I hate it more than I hate anything in the world, but what do I even know? And on top of that… of course my sister married the king and she has barely looked at me since, if we don’t count that she did not tell me that the last time we laid together before the marriage would have been… the last, so she carried _my_ child to term and she will not even let me near him.” He bit down on his tongue, his hands clenched into fists.

“So, that — that was it,” he said. “I have done heinous things, I do not deny it, and I have lain with my sister and I have broken my vows, and if you are regretting that _I_ was the one coming up on that tower you have all the rights of it, but —” He gathered all his courage and figured he would admit it once and for all. “But I could not bear to tell you until we got to King’s Landing because bar my brother no one has looked at me like I don’t have shit for honor in the last few years except for you, and I wanted to savor it for as long as I could. I am sorry, truly —”

He stopped when he felt a large, rough hand cover his wrist.

His eyes snapped open then, and he found out to his horror that not only his face was wet with tears, but that Brienne was looking at him as if _she_ was about to cry herself, shaking her head.

“Why did you come for me?” She asked, cutting straight to the chase.

He smirked, sadly. “I think,” he replied, “because all in all, I wanted a last chance at honor and coming for you seemed like the closest I could get to it. And I am glad I did it, because I think it really might have been the only honorable deed I ever pulled on my own.” He felt his mouth tremble, and then she was staring at him with blue eyes full of sympathy, which he did not know what to do about —

“Can you stand?” She asked.

“Yes,” he blurted, doing so, and she followed him, and then she tentatively wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and he felt like bursting out in tears as he reached up for her own and held her back.

He had not expected _this_ , he had not, no one bar Tyrion had even tried to touch him just to give him comfort in _years_ —

“Ser,” she said, still _meaning_ it, “no one should have had to take that choice at seven and ten. You saved an entire city. You asked yourself the right questions. I could not have wished for someone worthier to come for me,” she whispered, her voice trembling, and then he held her closer and maybe cried against her shoulder, finally letting it happen after keeping it to himself for this long, and he did not notice how the pigeon perched on the fireplace would have looked horrified, if pigeons _could_ muster that kind of expression in their eyes.

Nor how his black, small eyes suddenly seemed to look _sorry_.

Right now, as Brienne held him closer, he only was thinking that she was warm, so warm, and her hands were gentler than Cersei’s ever had felt, and he cried harder when they tentatively ran through his hair.

She believed him.

 _She believed him_ , and he could not make sense of it, but he was just so, so glad she did, he could burst with it.

— —

When he was spent, he moved back, reluctant to leave her arms but realizing that he could not overstep his welcome. “Thank you,” he told her, sincerely.

“No need to thank me,” she replied. “It was the truth. People should have asked you why you did it, and I don’t think your name should be forever hated for it. And I should probably thank you for making me see that maybe I should not wish for any Kingsguard cloak.”

“You are too good for one,” Jaime told her, sincerely. “Ask Robert for Tarth and then decide what you wish to do, but — do not try for it. They would only ruin you.”

“And what about you?” She asked.

He shrugged. “I swore myself to the king,” he snorted. “And I cannot take it back. But I shall go back to it knowing I’ve done something worthwhile and _someone_ in Westeros does not think me the worst oathbreaker.”

“That… doesn’t seem fair,” Brienne protested.

“I have learned that the world isn’t fair a long time ago,” he sighed,. “But maybe people like you could make it fairer, my lady.”

She blushed, smiling softly at him, and told him that he might put too much trust in her, but she would try to uphold that vow, too.

He did not notice that Ned Stark spent the entire night awake.

Awake and as troubled as a pigeon could be.

— —

The next day, the pigeon didn’t glare at Jaime as usual.

Jaime wondered if Stark finally realized that he had been unfair to him, but didn’t dare ask and kept his mouth shut as they neared King’s Landing.

Meanwhile, he kept on wondering what that curse could be about, because he had been riding with Brienne for days by now and he hadn’t felt himself turn any worse than he already was. Oh, he knew his soul was dark and _ugly_ , if he was the same as Cersei how could he not be, but — for that matter, he had only felt _relieved_ by being near her. Certainly not _worse off_.

Maybe he was immune to that curse for that exact reason? Maybe, but it still did not quite add up and it just… made no sense.

Meanwhile, he could not know, but Brienne was desperately hoping that her course would not touch him, because to her he was fair and beautiful and honorable, and what if being around her for a long time might change it and turn him as ugly as she looked?

Gods, she hoped not. He deserved better than that, and than a Kingsguard who did not appreciate him, and than a sister who tossed him away like he was worth nothing when to Brienne he was worth _everything_ — he saved her, he gave her that beautiful sword, he didn’t let her face death on her own and he trusted her when no one else ever did, but how could she do anything about it?

She resolved to think about it.

Meanwhile, they rode on.

— —

King’s Landing was not as grand as Brienne remembered it, looking at it from afar as the pigeon flew around them.

Jaime took in a deep breath.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose it’s time we go to court. Not that I missed it.”

Brienne nodded — she was not looking forward to it either, truth to be told. For a moment a wild thought took her — _what if we turned our horses now, became hedge knights and never looked back_ —, but she drove it away. She had no right to ask it of him, nor to risk ruining him with her cursed self, and he was Kingsguard and he had a duty. She could not.

She had not known that he had harbored the same exact thought, except that he would not speak of it out loud because he thought she would never agree to such a thing when it would have implied helping him _break his vows_.

— —

As they entered the city, Brienne immediately noticed how people sneered when Ser Jaime rode by, and how they looked at her with suspicion, but _that_ she had assumed.

She also supposed she should have expected Ser Jaime to get that treatment, but still, it _hurt_ to see him smile at them showing his teeth while his eyes looked dead, when in the previous days they had shone green as emeralds and they had looked at her with respect and maybe awe.

She couldn’t bear to see it, not when to her he had been the only person — well, _human_ — who ever looked at her not just without laughing, but who also did not think her a freak or a pathetic excuse for a lady or for a woman, period, for even just _wanting_ the same things he did. She could barely bear to see how little he thought of himself, and she could barely bear to see him shamed for having done his duty by the truth of his oaths. Still, she did not know how to say it without sounding ridiculous, for she had spent her entire life being told that she had no business complimenting others nor being complimented, and so she said nothing.

So, they made their way silently to the Red Keep — there, the guards seemed shocked to see Ser Jaime come back, and she could not hear what they told him for he had ridden ahead of her. But she was there to hear it when one of them asked —

“And who is that beast?”

Brienne didn’t flinch. She had heard that enough times.

Ser Jaime, though, did not flinch either.

He jumped down from his horse, staring down the guard. “ _She_ ,” he said, “is named _Lady_ Brienne of Tarth, she’s the princess from Harrenhal whom _I_ have rescued, and you’ll show her some respect.”

Then he punched the man straight in the mouth. The man spat a few teeth, hissed a _welcome to the Red Keep, Lady Brienne_ in between the ones that remained him, and Brienne found that her heart was beating so fast she could barely avoid showing it.

No one had ever done such a thing for her.

She jumped from the horse, following Ser Jaime inside the castle.

“I — am grateful,” she whispered. “But you did not have to.”

“Maybe I did not,” he agreed, turning to her and smiling for real, again, “but I did swear to rescue maidens, didn’t I? Let me keep one vow,” he said, and Brienne nodded in return, wondering how she had somehow _not_ ruined him yet.

They walked ahead. Brienne did not like the Red Keep any better now that it was draped in black and gold than she had when it was draped in red and black, but still, she hoped she wouldn’t have to stay.

Meanwhile, the pigeon flied behind them, looking very, _very_ troubled.

— —

As the pigeon flew by, an auburn haired woman appeared in the hallway, unseen by anyone who did not know to look for her.

She smiled to herself.

— —

“Ser Jaime,” the king said when they were finally in his presence, “I see that your brother was not lying when he guaranteed us that you really had _gone to Harrenhal_ rather than deserting.”

Jaime, who had never liked the man and did so even less now, swallowed bile if only for Brienne’s sake. “I did,” he said. “And as you can see, I _did_ free the princess.”

“Certainly a feat,” the king stated, looking at Brienne, who seemed so uncomfortable she could run out of the room, and Jaime could not blame her. “As, regardless of what that curse said, you seem to have retained your looks.”

People around them laughed. Jaime saw Brienne flinch. He said nothing and swallowed bile, again.

“I might have,” he agreed.

“So,” Cersei asked, sneering, “did you slay the dragon, too?”

Jaime, who technically had _not_ , but also could not say that it had… flied away after discussing somewhat confusing matters, cleared his throat. “I chased it out of the place, yes,” he settled on.

“And you risked its wrath for _her_?” She laughed.

Brienne did _not_ flinch, even if she kept her mouth shut. Jaime thought she looked angry.

He had never seen her angry.

“Your Grace,” he interrupted, “I have found out, since rescuing her, that whatever fame Lady Brienne has is… entirely unfounded. I would be grateful if you could… hear her out.”

“Of course I should,” the king said. “I am quite curious as to how she apparently owns a _Lannister sword_ that _you_ do not own and that’s certainly not Brightroar now.”

“Your Grace,” Brienne said, “the sword… we came to the conclusion that it was magically conjured into existence and Ser Jaime saw fit to give it to me, even if I thought _he_ should have it. Nonetheless, I am beyond grateful to him for having freed me, and — I do not come asking for anything of you, Your Grace, except your leave.”

Jaime breathed in sharply — he _did_ tell her to ask for Tarth, why wouldn’t she?

“My leave?”

She sighed. “I was a hostage in King’s Landing, three hundred years ago. My father ruled on Tarth, and I never saw it, because I was kept here since I was a child. I suppose that no one ever rescinded that. I want your leave of it so I can be free.”

“Let’s suppose I give it to you. What would you want to do with it?”

She straightened her shoulders.

“Be a knight,” she replied, and the entire room laughed.

 _Of course it would_ , Jaime thought, closing his hands into fists. He glanced at Brienne, who had seemed to expect that reaction, and so she did not pay attention to it.

“A _knight_?”

“That’s what I trained for,” Brienne insisted. “I can wield a sword, and I know I cannot take any oaths officially, but I do want to honor those vows, for it has been my dream since I can remember having dreams. My looks would not matter for such a life now, wouldn’t they? Grant me leave and I will turn my back on this castle and you won’t hear of me again.”

“Unless maybe someone writes a song about your deeds?” Cersei asked, still half-smirking, and Jaime had never loathed her so much in his entire life, not even when he had understood that she never truly loved _him_.

Brienne glared back at her, though — Cersei seemed to be the one person Brienne would _not_ flinch in front of, for some reason.

“And so what?” Brienne snapped back. “Maybe I would like it. No one will ever sing or write about my beauty, and I have known since I was born. I was _cursed_ into it. I do not see how that would concern _you_ , Your Grace.”

Jaime saw Tyrion trying not to laugh in the corner as Cersei’s eyes turned a colder shade of green.

“Come on,” King Robert said, “no need to be this unpleasant. If going is what you want, who am I to prevent you from doing so? You were a _Targaryen_ hostage, and I’m no Targaryen. Go, for all I care.”

“Thank you,” she bowed, and then Cersei smiled again.

“I think,” she said, “that it would not be very proper if you went with a _Lannister_ sword now.”

Jaime immediately saw what she wanted to do, and he was about to tell her to not do it, but he saw Brienne’s blue eyes turn an icy shade.

“Why, Your Grace,” she asked, “do you want it for yourself? Because forgive me, but I do not think you have the training to lift it.”

 _What has she just done_ , Jaime thought as Robert laughed, Cersei went red in the face, Tyrion tried _not_ to laugh and everyone else just stayed silent.

“So what,” Cersei spat, “you would say the Kingslayer gave it to you? That would not help your reputation, if you want to be a _knight_.”

“Oh, I would,” Brienne said, “but I would not say that the Kingslayer gave it to me. I would say the finest knight in this realm gave it to me.”

At _that_ , the entire room fell even more silent and Jaime thought he might faint.

 _What had she just said_?

Then someone sneered. Brienne, taking no notice of Cersei’s stare, glared at them, finding the source in the crowd at her right. “What,” she asked, “have you perchance asked him _why_ he murdered his king?”

“Because _you_ know?” Cersei asked.

“I might,” Brienne said, “and while I will not disclose the reasons because it should be his choice, let it be known that none of them were coming from bad intentions and he only kept the _first_ oath knights swear. He did come for me when no one would and he has only ever been exceedingly courteous with me, and he did risk his life to save innocent children when we were heading back here, and nothing I have seen of him would make me doubt that he _is_ indeed a true knight. I saw enough and I learned enough to know that they are not a popular specimen, and I wished to be a good one, too. But _he_ is the kind that only lives seldom and he _is_ the finest I ever met, and you should value him more than you do, when you do have him. If he wants that sword back, I will be only too glad to give it to him, but if he wishes for me to keep it, I will wear it proudly.”

Jaime felt his eyes burn at that endorsement — he had not imagined that she would say such a thing, and he knew she _did_ think highly of him for some reason, but now that he heard it he felt like he might cry, and the fact that it came from someone who believed in the same principles as he once did was making him feel like he could actually survive being called _Kingslayer_ his entire life behind his back if it meant _she_ did not think him worthy of such a name.

But gods, she also was standing tall and glaring back at the man, same as she had glared at Cersei, and he couldn’t believe she would likely ruin her chances at starting with a good name by endorsing his own, but she _had_ —

“You should keep it,” he said, “you’re far worthier of it than I am.”

The room fell silent again. Cersei’s eyes widened in distaste as he came closer to her, shaking his head and figuring that if this was where they parted, he might as well tell her.

“Brienne,” he said, not even bothering to use her title, “that sword was always meant for you, I think. There was no way it was not when it was given to me. I don’t know why it bears my house’s sigil, but it’s yours. It should always be yours. And I don’t even know how that fucking curse even is supposed to work, but let me tell you — anyone who looks at you and sees ugliness has no eyes. And whoever cursed you did it _wrong_ , because I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, and I know I’m the least worthy person in Westeros to tell you such a thing, but I —” He stopped, moved closer as everyone else stared in a mute mix of horror and suspense, “I think I have come to love you, in our time together, and you certainly have not turned me uglier than I already was now.”

“You _aren’t_ —” She started, but then her mouth fell open. “Ser Jaime, you haven’t just said —”

He nodded, hating that he was wearing white. “I should not, not with the cloak I wear, but I think I do, and I think you should know.”

Brienne stared at him for one moment, a very, very long moment, and then to the entire court’s surprise, she leaned down to kiss him — it was not a very spectacular kiss, for she had no experience in such things, and he had not expected her to do it, even if he immediately kissed back, but before anything else could happen, both of them were surrounded by bright light at once, for a few seconds —

And then it was gone and they moved back and it was obvious to anyone that nothing had changed. Brienne still looked homely and her nose hadn’t turned straight and her shoulders hadn’t become narrower and she still was taller than he was and her blue eyes were still astonishingly pretty, bright like the most precious sapphire, and Jaime could only stare back at her in awe, not noticing his sister’s murderous stare —

“I see that you finally understood,” a female voice said from the entrance of the hall, and they both turned to look at an auburn-haired woman that _did_ look like that fellow Edmure at Harrenhal, now that Jaime thought about it.

“Lady Catelyn?” Brienne asked in awe, and Jaime wanted to know how she knew who that woman was, but then the newcomer smiled again.

“Brienne,” she said. “I did tell you that you had to find someone who’d see you for who you _really_ were, didn’t I?”

Brienne’s blue eyes became even wider. “Does that mean —”

“I suppose I owe everyone some explanations,” she said. “But yes, the curse is officially broken.” She was smiling, Jaime noticed.

“Er,” he asked, “and who are you?”

She winked at him. “My name,” she said, “is Catelyn Tully.”

 _Oh_. Of course. Now it all added up. The Tullys were _magical beings,_ weren’t they?

“And my sister is the one who cursed her, to the entire family’s shame,” she said. “A long time ago. But I made sure that it could be broken, knowing that one day someone who _would_ see her for who she truly was would come along, and let me tell you, _you_ were not what I had envisioned, but all in all? Ser Jaime, you have not just passed the test, but you have done it better than any of us ever gave you credit for. Congratulations,” she added.

“Uh, thank you? So, that man who gave me the sword —”

“My brother,” she confirmed. “He was rooting for you, for that matter. Anyhow, if anyone thinks she _would_ curse them, they can sleep soundly, but — that curse never actually was about _you_ ,” she sighed.

“… How?” Brienne asked.

“People, knowing ahead that your looks might curse them, would behave horribly with you… therefore turning ugly already,” she explained. “That was how my sister made sure that no one would get close enough to see the difference. Good thing that he did.”

So Jaime _had_ been right about it.

“But _how_?” Cersei sneered, moving down from her husband’s side. “How can someone as _beautiful_ as you even want the two of them near each other?”

Lady Catelyn raised an eyebrow.

“Both of them are as beautiful as I am,” she replied. “ _You_ , on the other side, are honestly one of the ugliest people I ever had the displeasure to meet. Consider _that._ ”

As the situation got heated, the king also rose from his seat —

And then the doors of the room opened and Lord Ned Stark walked inside it.

That was _not_ anything anyone had been expecting, and surely no one expected Lord Stark to come inside the Great Hall only dressed in what seemed like an old curtain hastily tied around his chest.

“Ned?” The king exclaimed, suddenly forgetting what was going down below and reaching for his friend. “How — are you _back_?”

“I am,” Ned croaked, shaking his head and holding his curtain closer, “and I think I have to — support Lady Brienne’s case.”

Suddenly, the room fell silent all over again.

“ _Support her case_ ,” King Robert repeated.

“See,” Ned said, “the reason I was, uh, turned into that bird, or so I heard before it happened, was that… I might have to learn to judge people less harshly.” He sighed. “Nothing happened for years until I figured that I would follow Ser Jaime in his quest, since I held him in contempt and he was setting off for an honorable reason, or so it seemed. And as I followed… as much as I did not want to accept it in the beginning, not only I saw him behave valiantly and honorably, but he also shared with the lady the reasons behind his kingslaying, and… I had to admit to myself I had thoroughly misjudged him.”

At that point, Jaime honestly did not know if he was dreaming the entire exchange or not, but Ned was not paying attention to that.

“And I only turned back when as I heard what was happening here I wished I could do something to help the both of them, and here I am. I like to think I learned my lesson,” he finished, glancing at Jaime. “He does have honor,” he said. “More than any of us gave him credit for. And Robert, if I were you, I would release him from the Kingsguard already.”

People gasped, Jaime’s hand found Brienne’s without even thinking about it, Cersei’s face went uttermost pale and King Robert’s mouth fell open.

“Ned,” he said, “that has _never_ happened. They serve for life. I should send him to the Wall, if I released him.”

Ned shook his head, then sent Jaime an apologetic look. “Robert, he killed Aerys because he was going to burn the entire city with wildfire just as we neared it. We’d be dead if he hadn’t, and all of this city would be, and I didn’t even have the decency to ask him why, which I sorely regret now. And he only had the idea of joining because his sister convinced him.”

Cersei tried to protest, but Robert wasn’t even looking at her.

“He’s young, he could do better than this and the only thing he wants is probably to go off having adventures with _her_ , and she showed a great deal more foresight than I had when he told her. Release him and let them go, I think they earned it.”

Robert stared at Ned, then at the two of them, then at Cersei, then he smiled.

“Fair,” he said, “it’s not as if I particularly cared either way. Ser Jaime?”

“… Yes, Your Grace?”

“Is that what you want? To be released from your vows?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jaime blurted at once, unable to believe he had to thank _Ned Stark_ for it, “I — yes. I don’t even care about my inheritance, my brother can have it if you don’t think I deserve it after what I did. But if you would be so kind —”

“Done,” the king said. “Consider yourself dismissed. I wouldn’t deny my oldest friend a favor now, especially now that I finally have him back.”

Before Cersei could protest, Jaime had thrown away the cloak to the side, turning to Brienne again, and her heart lost a few beats because she had never seen him smiling that brightly.

“My lady,” he said, “I think that Lord Stark had the right of it, as much as I never thought I would agree with him. Should we go slay some more bandits?”

“Yes,” she replied at once, knowing that it was _not_ what he had truly been asking, and then they kissed again, faster and more passionately and with his tongue slipping inside her mouth, and for a moment the entire room erupted in noise —

That is, until the dragon crashed through the window.

“Oh, am I interrupting something?” He said, and he was as black and red as he had been in Harrenhal, but as Jaime took a better look at him he noticed that he seemed… well, happier. He also was wearing a strange squared hat with some kind of hammer and a sickle on the front. _What_?

“How delightful,” he said. “Congratulations on losing your chains, Ser Jaime!”

“… Thank you?” Jaime said, not quite knowing how to process it.

“Didn’t you kill it?” Cersei sneered at him.

“I said that I _chased it away_ , not that I killed it,” Jaime hissed, “and he didn’t even put on a fight, for that matter.”

“Why would I? He freed me, too,” the dragon went on, “and that’s what I have come to do for you, as well.”

“For _us_?” Cersei sneered.

“Of course. That,” he said, nodding towards the throne, “is a symbol of tyrannical monarchic power, which enslaves the people, and should I leave it to _you_ all, you would just turn it into a bourgeois institution turned towards oppressing the commoners, who also have nothing else to lose but their chains, and as I know it’s inherently wrong and unfair, I think it’s time for it to go. Too many people suffered from it anyway.”

“You know what,” King Robert said, hearing the entire speech, “I’ve been king for less than five years and I already hate everything about it. Do I get to lose those chains, too?”

“ _Everyone_ should lose their chains,” the dragon said proudly.

“Then have at it,” Robert said, smiling, and the dragon turned towards the Iron Throne, opened his mouth and let out a string of burning fire, so strong that it melted in the span of a moments. When he stopped, there was no throne anymore, just a melted piece of iron that did not look too menacing.

“There,” the dragon proclaimed, “that’s a lot better. Have a nice life, everyone, and remember that the fight for people’s rights is never quite over! Lose your chains!”

Then he flew out of the window as Robert breathed in relief and said he couldn’t go back to a less boring life, Cersei screeched after the dragon, Tyrion desperately wiped at his eyes, for he had laughed so hard tears were brought to them, and Jaime and Brienne had quite stopped paying attention and they were kissing again.

Ned Stark, meanwhile, was still trying to keep the curtain around himself lest he ended up naked in front of the whole court, or former court.

“My lord,” the auburn haired lady that had been standing inside the hall when he walked in said, appearing next to him, “would it be that you need better clothing?”

“Uh,” he stammered, “yes, my lady. I actually might. But —”

She smiled up at him and suddenly the curtain turned into serviceable breeches, shirt, doublet and cloak with a Stark sigil embroidered at the bottom. “There,” she said, “I trust you will find that more comfortable than the curtain.”

“Thank you,” he said, not quite looking at her. “So, uh, you’re Brienne’s —”

“I helped her,” she said. “Alas, I have to admit that the curtain had its advantages.”

“… Did it?”

“Surely it showed off your shoulders more than this attire,” she winked at him, and Ned went red in the face but held her stare.

“I — I imagine you will go with her now?” He asked.

“Oh, she doesn’t need me anymore,” the lady replied, glancing fondly at Jaime and Brienne still kissing in the middle of the turmoil. “Myself, I had thought I’d visit the North. I haven’t been there in centuries.”

“… Maybe you would wish for an escort?” Ned asked, his heart suddenly beating a lot faster.

“I thought you would never ask, Lord Stark,” she smiled back.

Ned decided that he would be uttermost glad to escort her North. As soon as he apologized to Lannister in person, but he supposed that could wait, for the moment.

— —

Just after the fall of King’s Landing, or so the singers named it later, the black and red dragon flew off to Dragonstone, where he found the last three living Targaryens in Westeros, schooled them on the proletarian fight for equal rights across the known world and asked them if they would be willing to join him in his quest to free all enslaved men. They all said yes, departed on his back and were never seen in Westeros again except once, years later, but they certainly were happier there than they would have been staying in Dragonstone for their entire lives.

Ned Stark did indeed escort Lady Catelyn Tully to the North, and while it was unheard of magical beings falling for humans, that’s exactly what happened — no one batted an eyelid when it turned out that Lord Stark could, in fact, transform into a pigeon at will. They had five beautiful children, all of which had _some_ supernatural power, though not as much as their mother, and when Arthur Dayne showed up in Winterfell with Lady Lyanna’s son a few years later, telling them that he couldn’t bear to keep him apart from what family he had left anymore, they happily took both in and they all lived perfectly happy until that Long Night Rhaegar had predicted happened, but at that point the dragon came back specifically to fight the undead, then left again with Viserys, Daenerys and Rhaella, to never be seen again for good, and the undead did not really last long.

Tyrion did indeed inherit Casterly Rock, much to his sister’s dismay and chagrin (their father died of a heart attack when he learned that Jaime had left his inheritance and name to Tyrion to run off with Brienne of Tarth), and to her horror when he wed a crofter’s daughter that he had fallen in love with (except that as he was officially a lord they could do nothing for it), but she had to follow Robert with their son (that Robert did not know was in fact Jaime’s, but she could not tell him now, could she?) to his old castle and she couldn’t complain about that either lest she uncovered the truth, and so she did not and had to content herself with being Lady Baratheon and trading glares with her husband’s younger brother Stannis, who had in mind to make sure her son did not turn completely inept at being a lord. Sadly for Cersei, Stannis was fairly stubborn _and_ only conferred with bannermen he trusted who would counsel him well, and so she lost most of her battles — Joffrey turned out being at least adequate, the other two children they had after spent most of their time with either uncles on both sides and it was only in their best interest, and they could not understand how did their lady mother loathe their _other_ uncle’s lady wife.

Jaime and Brienne, on their side, did indeed flee the capital quietly after the dragon destroyed the throne, leaving it to everyone else to figure out how to run the entire realm. They did not stop until they reached the outskirts of the city, and before either of them could think of anything to say, they were kissing savagely and said nothing of import until the next morning, as they were too busy losing their clothes. The morning after, though, Brienne said that she would have liked to see Tarth for once in her life, and so they sailed for it, to find out that word had gotten to the people on there that she was alive.

Jaime agreed, but not before having her kneel and knighting her officially, for he knew she deserved it more than most and he wanted to give her that gift, and she accepted it with joy, and they did not move to find a harbor for the next few hours.

After they arrived in Tarth, they found out that her father had been a most benevolent and loved lord, and the Targaryen castellans had not been as beloved or benevolent, and the people were astonished to see that not only she was alive but that she also looked tall and strong and proud, and they actually did offer her to rule in the castellan’s stead — she was flattered, but told them that she was too young and inexperienced, and as she had learned a lot from the dragon, she would rather have a regularly elected council taking decisions for everyone, of course allowing everyone in the island to vote; the people agreed, but also assured her that she could come back whenever she liked and they would keep the castle for her, it’s not as if they needed it. So, knowing that they _did_ have some place they could come back to other than visiting Jaime’s brother at Casterly Rock, they could go around Westeros doing what they both wished to, as in, protecting the innocent and being the knights they always wanted to be. More than once, they visited both Ned Stark and Lady Catelyn in the North, and one of those times they knelt in front of a weirwood tree and said their vows with only the lady and a pigeon perched on her shoulder hearing them.

The day after, Jaime knighted her again in public for all to see, and that felt like a second marriage ceremony, as well.

Jaime found out that he quite liked shedding his white Kingsguard clothing for dark red, and Brienne found out she quite liked seeing him in it, same as he quite liked seeing her in dark blue with her Lannister sword on her hip, which they both named Oathkeeper of their own accord. They ended up sharing it once in a while because she insisted, even if she was the one using it most times. When they passed through a tavern in the Stormlands and heard a song about the two of them saving the children from that inn where he was described as brave and valiant and she was described the same but also as a true beauty because such was her soul, both of them tried to not wipe their tears in front of an audience, not that many people noticed they were there in the first place.

And if, while they were off being knights, in the North Lady Catelyn always brought up Cersei Lannister asking her how could someone so _beautiful_ want to see those two together during dinners in Winterfell as the most amusing thing that ever happened in her entire long existence, and it had been _very_ long, no one could begrudge her.

“As if the way I look like means anything when it comes to wanting to see other people being happy with each other,” she said every time, everyone around the table nodding, for it was true and no one in that court, their children first and foremost, could conceive taking physical beauty into account when it came to judging someone’s character.

After al, that was how everyone found their happily ever after, and all of them were indeed smart enough to recognize a story’s moral when they saw it in front of their eyes.

 

End.


End file.
